


a ghost will be here in my stead

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Hermann is feeling under the weather.





	a ghost will be here in my stead

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: newt weaponizes the gay agenda

Hermann feels bloody _awful_.

His head is pounding like a heartbeat, and he’s shivering in his parka. It’s freezing today, or maybe it isn’t, because his head is on fire, but the rest of his body feels icy and stiff. His limbs are heavy and useless, and his chest feels so thick and tight he could choke on it. He’s barely been able to code today, it’s so hard to focus. Even with his glasses on, the numbers and words swim in front of him, as if to mock his body’s frail structure. He hasn’t slept in days.

The lab techs keep looking at him warily, as if he might shatter to pieces with a single word. Everyone around this damn base treats him like glass, especially when certain subjects (or people) are brought up. Hermann hates it. He doesn’t want their pity. He wants-- he wants-- Hermann doesn’t know what he wants. To be loved? To feel safe, for once in ten years? He can’t think of it now.

He’s just _so_ tired.

More than once he’s found himself nodding off at his desk, glasses tumbling off his face. Currently, he’s sitting with his chin in his hands, staring at the screen in front of him. His eyes hurt. His everything hurts.

He knows, perhaps, he should really rest, but every moment spent doing that is one that could be used to help Newton, to save him, to free him from this horrible prison he’s trapped in. Newton needs to be saved _now_. There’s no time to waste.

His eyes are beginning to droop again, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Hermann sits bolt upright, blinking quickly to stay awake. “Sorry-- yes?”

It’s Jake, looking disgustingly concerned. “Hey, Gottlieb. You feeling alright?”

Hermann rolls his eyes, then winces. That _hurt_. “I am fine, thank you Ranger. Is there something you needed?”

Jake shuffles his feet a little. “No, I just… wanted to check in. Some folks have been saying you look a little under the weather and,” he glances up and down at him, “I sorta have to agree. No offense, mate, but you look terrible.”

Hermann glares at him. “How nice of you to say.”

With a shrug, Jake puts a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I know you’re the one working the hardest on this, but you’re no use to anybody sick. Take a day, at the least, just to rest. We need you in top form if we’re gonna save Geiszler.”

Hermann glares at him harder, but Jake looks him straight in the eye. “Please.”

And then suddenly, there are two of him.

Hermann blinks, startled, then peers closer. Indeed, there are two watery Jakes staring at him, looking very concerned. “Oh dear,” says Hermann. His own voice sounds faint and foggy. “That’s a bit bad.”

“Gottlieb?” Jake asks. When Hermann doesn’t respond, he reaches down and grabs his hand. “Alright, that does it. As your superior officer, I’m ordering you to go to your quarters and go the hell to sleep.”

Jake pulls Hermann to his feet, hands him his cane, and puts an arm around his shoulder. Hermann would argue, brazenly, but feels a little too dazed to do so. There are now three Jakes.

Jake walks him to his quarters and slides the keycard in, helping him through the door. Hermann sits down on the bed, too tired to speak. He leans his cane against the side table and begins to fumble with his shoes, barely noticing Jake slip out the door.

“Take it easy, Gottlieb,” he says. “We’re all rooting for you.”

Hermann manages to get his shoes off, then his socks and pants, and finally everything but his undershirt and drawers. Those he leaves on, barely managing to stumble under the covers and pull them tightly around himself before passing out.

\---

The world of fever dreams is dark and hazy, swimming with muted colors and echoey sound. Hermann thinks he sees Newt, strapped to a chair, maybe speaking with Pentecost? He doesn’t know; everything is muddled. Even in his dreams he hurts, feeling the ache in his bones and muscles. 

Hermann wakes a time later, shivering and drenched in sweat. His tongue feels thick and rough in his mouth, and he groans. The pain has gotten even worse.

A shape moves in the corner of his room, moving closer. Hermann closes his eyes for a moment, and opens them to see the hazy form of Newton staring back at him. He feels a cool, dry hand on his forehead and sighs.

“Newton?” he mumbles, squinting in the dim light of his room. It must be a fever dream-- a hallucination of his addled mind. Newton is dressed in his sweater and slacks, the oversized clothing hanging off his small form. He leans in and puts his cheek on Hermann’s forehead, the sensation remarkably real.

“Christ, Hermann,” Newton says, drawing back. “You’re burning up.”

He moves a way for a moment, and there is the sound of running water and fabric. Newton returns with what looks to be a washcloth, and places it on Hermann’s forehead. It’s cool and damp, and Hermann lets out a little whimper of relief.

Newton looks almost tender, pulling the covers up around Hermann’s neck. He strokes a hand through Hermann’s hair, and Hermann leans into the touch. It’s been so long since someone touched him gently, without any falsehoods or menace behind it. Newton’s hand is soft and careful, carding through his hair with only the barest trace of pressure. The feeling is euphoric.

“Newton,” he murmurs, struggling to think with the wondrous feeling of Newton’s hand. “Newton, I miss you. So much.”

He feels Newton’s hand still, then move again. “Yeah,” comes his voice, sounding almost choked, “I miss you too, Hermann.”

It’s a nice lie, if anything, Hermann thinks, and then he’s out again.

\---

Hermann wakes this time to someone gently rubbing his shoulder. “Hermann, buddy,” comes Newton’s voice, “wake up. You need to eat.”

Hermann wrenches his eyes open to see Newton above him, sitting on the bed and gazing at him softly. Hermann groans.

“C’mon,” says Newton, and reaches over to grab a bowl from the side table. “I made you chicken soup. Or, well, I made it as best I could. Rations and all.”

He puts a hand on Hermann’s back and helps him to sit up. Hermann feels shaky and weak, but takes the spoon and begins to eat under Newton’s watchful eye. The soup is watery and overly salted, but warm, and Hermann feels some of that warmth trickle down inside him. Newton keeps the hand on his back, moving it back and forth in small circles. It feels so, _so_ good, and Hermann sighs a little around the spoon.

Once he’s eaten all of it, Newton takes the bowl away and lowers Hermann back down onto the bed. He continues to rub Hermann’s back, putting the other hand on his cheek and moving his thumb across the bone. Hermann feels warmer now, safe and happy in his Newton’s arms.

It is only a dream, though, and he sighs. “I wish you were real,” he says softly. “If only for now.”

Above him, Newton is silent for a moment. Then, he replies, “Is this a dream, Hermann?”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re… you’re not here. You’re in your cell, in your chair. In your cell.” Hermann yawns. “I’m helping you. Or, I was. I wish I weren’t ill, Newton. I could save you, then.”

Newton smiles. “You get awful sappy when you’re sick, don’t you?”

Hermann huffs out a weak laugh. “And you get very… very kind. When you’re not possessed by aliens, of course.”

Newton looks away, his smile slipping like water between fingers. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No,” says Hermann, “no, you’re so kind, Newton. You could be cruel, of course, but inside, you were always good to me. I miss that most about you, I think.”

Newton strokes his cheek. “Go to sleep, Hermann. You’re sick.”

He is, Hermann knows this, and so he falls into the dark once more.

\---

Hermann feels almost better when he opens his eyes again. His chest is lighter, and the pounding in his head has ceased to a dull roar. He sits up slowly, rubbing at his face and looking around the room.

Newton is sitting next to him, having pulled up a chair by the bed. He’s thumbing through Hermann’s copy of _Cry the Beloved Country_ , but looks up when Hermann moves.

“‘But there is only one thing that has power completely, and this is love,’” Newton says, “‘Because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power.’” He closes the book and turns to Hermann. “Feeling better?”

“How are you still here?” he asks, confused. “You were a dream.”

“Maybe so,” says Newton, “but why would that make me any less real?” He peers at Hermann. “You slept, so that’s a miracle. You’re looking less pale, and your eyes aren’t super feverish. I’d get you more soup, but the kitchen’s closed, and I don’t think I’m supposed to be there anyway.”

He hands Hermann a glass of water, which Hermann drinks quickly. He’s parched. Then, after the last swallow, he narrows his eyes at Newton. “So are you real or not? Because, as delightful as most people with it are, I’d prefer not to develop schizophrenia.”

Newton shakes his head. “You’re fine, Hermann. And you’re not going crazy, either. It’s me.”

Still a little disbelieving, Hermann asks, “Then how did you escape? And where are the Precursors?”

He shrugs. “I asked why you hadn’t come that day. Jake told me you were sick-- like, really sick, and… they just sort of disappeared. I didn’t understand why, I just knew I needed to help you. So I stole his keycard and came right here. I don’t think anyone really knows where I am, but honestly, making sure you were okay was more important.”

Hermann blinks. “So, everything… you… all of this… it really happened? You’re alright? You-- you’re here?”

Newton smiles.


End file.
